Crimson Guilt
by IHsteven.gu
Summary: A man subjected to the torments of his work, fame, and guilt, is driven to insanity.


Killing Guilt

It was like there was a porous pit excavated into his stomach, causing his life energy to trickle away and leaving an arid husk of unthinking flesh. The mahogany floor seemed to sway like it was a sea of rocking apprehensions, and he, Johnson Kirk, was but a floundering speck with nothing but a dinghy to keep him afloat. He nervously beat a worn trail around the perimeter of the room. The pattering of the downpour outside was comforting to him. It seemed to envelop the house with a colorless, muted atmosphere where no noise but his nervous mutterings could penetrate. The flickering candle lights of his dank and musty chamber cast the room in a dancing frenzy of shadows, giving the illusion of movement at the corner of Johnson's eyes. Abruptly, he stopped in front of the tall arched window and peered past the crimson draperies into the torrential downpour falling from the angry clouds. The cyclone of wind and water animated the trees with waving limbs, and a crack of lightning illuminated the obscured landscape, highlighting a marked contrast between the shadows blanketing the country side and the flashing sky.

As he scanned the rocky shore, his eyes alighted on a dark outline emerging from the turbulence of the water. "God Almighty, it has followed me!" he stuttered as he hastily threw the draperies over the window and backpedaled to his bed. He drunkenly tottered until he collapsed on top, reduced to a twitching pile of firing nerves. His vision was streaked with crimson stripes and he unconsciously let out a bloodcurdling screech as he slipped into a deep slumber.

Smoothly striding through the jostling crowd, he calmly glided through the parted throng and into the private lounge where the six most powerful and influential men of his country relaxed upon plush armchairs and furnished sofas. They were men of grandeur, made fat and complacent with all the money the world could cough up.

"Ahh, Johnson! How nice of you to join us today," they greeted him. With simpering smiles and dandy handshakes, their faces dimpled with false delight.

"Great work with that big achievement of yours, young lad!" another congratulated, with mock enthusiasm.

As he shook each soft and flabby hand, he laughed at the irony of his present situation. Just the week before, the thoughts running through his head were "Don't step through that door; there must be a trap on the other side." There had been numerous instances where he had feared his life was soon to be over, however, through immense luck, he prevailed over his arch nemesis as it was he, Johnson, who sat in the room relishing every moment of his sweet triumph.

He had toiled hours in the laboratory, inhaling noxious fumes he knew were likely to be detrimental to his health; however, their sources held the key to the salvation of his career and life. He had devoted mind, body, and soul to his work, pushing the boundaries of his sanity. A practice he adopted while working was to rave in nearly religious fervor while the experiment was in full swing. This had driven off friends and family, but the biggest blow was when his lifelong best friend and assistant had deserted him.

The scene was still vivid in his mind for it had been the first breakthrough in the chemical sequencing. The years of work began to culminate and results were finally being shown. A mad and irrational urge to cavort and hoot with gaiety had seized his limbs and he had flown about the room with maniacal energy, cawing like a crow.

"You need to stop this, Johnson! You'll go mad!" his assistant had shouted, but he didn't heed his words. No, Johnson was already gone. The next day, Johnson found himself alone laying in a pool of unknown chemicals, shivering in the morning cold. Pitifully, he moaned "Warren? My assistant… are you there?" He was met with a deafening silence. He steeled himself and resolved to remain stolid. His quest was worth dying for.

As a scientist, one has to deal with a struggle not known to the public: thievery. Johnson had become a master at concealing himself, his lab, and his work throughout the country; however, there was still one man who he feared: Victor Bloom, a vicious cheater and a man without restraints. The man stopped at nothing and would murder anyone who got in his way. Every moment of Johnson's waking mind had become consumed in the struggle between the two of them. Their hunt and chase game was a matter of life and death, diverting Johnson's attentions temporarily from his work. In an exceedingly devious ploy; Johnson tricked the fox at his own game. He ambushed Victor while the man retreated after a wasted day of chasing a false trail Johnson had laid. Victor wound up with a knife lodged in his chest. Johnson left with blood staining his hands.

"I win," Johnson had hissed through clenched teeth, watching his enemy's eyes close for the last time.

After the entire hubbub over his discovery had passed, he began to notice a strange set of crimson painted footprints that always seemed to follow him. At first, they trailed him from such a distance that he assumed nothing of their foreboding nature. As the months trickled by and he basked in his newfound celebrity, the footsteps followed closer and closer until they were all but a few paces behind him. The phenomenon fascinated him since the paint always appeared fresh, still wet to the touch; however, when he began to feel cold breezes caressing the nape of his neck, panic set in.

"Johnson…" a voice would whisper when he was alone. He would leap back and claw at the air behind him to no avail.

As he emerged from his convoluted trance, he found himself in the dark, laying spread-eagle on his bed. The candles' flame, however feeble, had lent minuscule quantities of comfort, but now the dark pressed against his weary eyes. Propping himself up on shaky arms, he looked up. When his vision came into focus he immediately noticed the window. It was ajar, letting in the peaceful chirping of crickets. He closed his eyes and sighed contentedly for a minute, enjoying the calm. Then he reopened them and glanced downwards. To his horror, he discovered a trail of scarlet footsteps leading from the base of the window to his bed. His heart jumped into his mouth and he screamed wordlessly. The luminescent outline of Victor's body stood in direct relief against the lifeless darkness that lay outside the window. Without a word, Johnson drew his concealed knife from its hiding place beneath his pillow and silently slipped the lethal steel between his ribs, letting the blade kiss his contorted heart.


End file.
